


power trip.

by foundCarcosa



Category: Fable (Video Games), Fable 2 (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 22:00:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Newly-crowned Sparrow gets sick of Reaver's talk and makes him walk the walk. Or, walks all over him, depending on how you look at it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	power trip.

Perhaps if it were merely the fact that the robes didn’t quite fit — too tight around the chest, too blousy around the waist, too long here, too short there — or the fact that the castle was in a poor state, or the fact that the castle wasn’t hers, would never _be_ hers, because it still bore the impressions of an entire bloodline in the very floorboards, or the fact that she’d been a traveller for so long that sitting in one place all day made her limbs ache and her legs jiggle and her teeth grind…

Perhaps all of those minor annoyances could have been manageable, but then there was Reaver.

Pirate, rake, devil-on-the-shoulder, dashing good looks like a mask and a voice like rotting honey. When they’d first met, she’d been powerless, unprepared and unwarned, a drunken moth hovering just over a conflagration.  
The gunshot she’d heard from behind the closed parlour door just before she left the manor snapped her out of it, and permanently.

But perhaps that, too, was illusion. Had she really rid herself of his influence, snapped the shackles before they could lock, then would he be here today, smiling that coy mask-like smile as he spread his hands in a placating gesture?

“Come now, Sparrow. I don’t ask a lot from you.”

“Do you even listen to yourself?” She blows a gust of air, and the hairs that have fallen into her face scramble out of the way. Reaver is tanned, plucky, fresh from his trip to Samarkand with the mage. The mage that he insists he has… casually disposed of.  
Perhaps he’d forgotten that his lie-smithing falls flat in Sparrow’s presence.  
“All you’ve been _doing_ since I took this stupid throne is ask things of me. You’ve been doing it since we met!”

He scoffs, drawing up tall, his chest expanding behind an open-necked shirt. “You languish here, doing nothing. You could be improving Albion, and yet it stagnates. I wonder that Lucien didn’t have the right of it, after all.”

The chair reels back, nearly crashing to the floor, as Sparrow launches herself from it. “Don’t you ever say that again.”

Raised eyebrow, touch of tongue to teeth, slyness personified, coyness exemplified. Sparrow checks herself, reins herself in, but it is too late. She’s already betrayed herself.  
“Mm. That’s the Sparrow I know. I daresay the illusion of power has made you… lazy.  
I’ve made connections with an inventor. Promising one, at that. Give me a couple of decades, and I’m sure I can breathe new life into Bowerstone’s factories and foundries.  
Albion’s economy is in a sad, sad state of affairs. We need… entertainment. To excite the eyes and ears. Slake the lusts. Albans are easily-placated people, in case you haven’t noticed. Let me give them what they want, and they’ll give us what we need.”

“Brothels and taverns. You want to turn Albion into a giant version of Bloodstone, and I’m not letting you do that.”

“Now, now, you’re being wholly unreasonable, Sparrow, and—”

“Your Highness!”

Reaver pauses, tilts his head a moment, then leans in. “Pardon?”

Sparrow’s chest heaves, and not just from frustration — she cannot breathe in the ill-fitting garment, and her rising blood pressure isn’t making it any easier. “You call me ‘Sparrow’ as if I’m still a grubby little Hero-in-training you can send off to do your dirty work. I am queen of Albion, Reaver. Do you know what that means?”

“Nothing, for the moment.” Reaver’s eyes glitter as he cleanly interrupts her, looking no more ruffled than he had earlier. “Nothing, until you actually fill your role instead of sitting on it like a hen sits upon her eggs.”

She opens her mouth, closes it, grinds her teeth and glares at him. “Get out of here.”

“Now, now. Don’t be hasty, little dove.”

“Get _out!”_ The inkwell had been clenched in her fist, and now it sails through the air, singing past Reaver’s ear as he idly tilts to avoid it. She flinches when it shatters against the far wall, ink splattering over the wallpaper, dripping towards the floor.

“That is not the way a queen should behave, cully,” Reaver murmurs, and his smirk is as sharp as the daggers Sparrow used to wear at her belt. The daggers she misses sorely now, as the pirate saunters around the desk. “Perhaps you need a better outlet for all that petulant energy of yours.”

Her crackling hands are no deterrent to him, and even as she pushes her palms flat against his chest he snatches at her, purring in encouragement as the low-voltage spell shocks him. “Yes, yes, you know exactly what I like. I’ve always appreciated that about you, Sparrow. You pretend otherwise, but you are _so_ eager to please.”

The crack of a slap follows his words, and his head rocks back on his neck, but he is still undeterred, clamping a hand around the back of her neck and pushing her with the force of his body until her ass collides with the edge of the desk. He is shorter than her, but somehow he is no smaller. Somehow.

The pistol at his hip bruises her inner thigh when he pushes himself between her legs, the ridiculous skirts doing nothing to keep him away. “I’ve seen you bring down a trio of Spire Guards with one charged spell, my dear,” he whispers, cool breath feathering over the jumping artery in her neck. It is not this, though, that makes her shiver. “It speaks volumes that you cannot — or, rather, _do_ not — keep me away.”

Sparrow does not play coy well. Still furious, still seething with disgust, she knows he is right.  
But there is still satisfaction he does not have, and with new motivation she shoves him away by sheer force of Will, lunging at him as soon as he falls into the chair just behind him. The skirts billow over them both when she straddles him, clamping a ringed hand over his mouth, smiling grimly at the wide-eyed look he gives her.

“You talk too much,” she bites out, before snatching the Dragonstomper from its holster.

She makes to toss it away, and then inspects it. It is the first time she’s seen it this closely, let alone touched it. Had the circumstances been different, she might have taken a moment to admire it.  
Instead, she laves the underside of the barrel with her tongue, her eyes never leaving his.  
And _then_ she tosses it away, the gun spinning across the carpet to thud against the wall.

He lunges, against her hand and her bulk, and she _pushes_ back with both her body and Will, and snatches at the closure of his trousers.  
“Oh, settle down, boy. You asked for this.  
Maybe you should be careful what you wish for.”

And Reaver does settle, breathing hard and fast against her hand, hard blue eyes boring into hers, glittering, _hungry._  
Women lift their skirts for him, bare their backsides for him, fawn over him and ply their mouths and tongues and cunts for his pleasure. But this woman stifles him, muffles him, takes him in hand and squeezes hard until the head of him flushes red, and when she pushes her smallclothes aside and lowers herself onto him, her teeth are still gritted and her gaze is still burning with fury.

Reaver could have clamped his hands around her hips, could have thrust upwards, but something in him knew it would make no difference.  
He is not fucking Sparrow. Sparrow is fucking him.  
And as much as he hates it, he is still enjoying every second of it.

She rides him hard, and her head falls back and the exposed swells of her breasts flush a tempting crimson, and the way her jaw flexes and her teeth digs into her bottom lip makes him flush with eager heat, and not once does she move her hand from his mouth.

He snaps his teeth at the flesh of her palm once. She clenches up tight around his cock in response, and the overwhelming rush of pleasure is a surprisingly effective punishment.

He would have liked to come. Of course he would have liked to. And who wouldn’t have known that? Who, seeking to punish him, to exert their will over him, to frustrate and infuriate him, wouldn’t see that they finished first, wouldn’t milk their own pleasure and then depart?  
He should have expected Sparrow to lift herself off him as soon as she’d taken what she wanted. He should have expected her to straighten her skirts with haughty, snapping motions and toss her hair out of her face, securing it with a ribbon she snatched from her wrist. He should have expected the way she scowls at him, dishevelled and ruddy, still-hard cock slick and exposed.

He looks… common. Common and used.

“Feh. I could have gotten a better fuck from the pistol.

Clean up when you’re done, boy,” and Reaver doesn’t, of course he doesn’t, he fetches himself off twice when she has gone and leaves the evidence upon the impeccable, lacquered surface of her desk, but even as he does, he knows he has already lost.

 _“I am queen of Albion, Reaver. Do you know what that means?”_  
Perhaps he didn’t.


End file.
